by Linda Ford
He looked toward the house and again touched the brim of his hat.
Mercy chuckled. “I do believe he saw you.”
“Why are you spying on me?” Sybil’s voice held no rancor. Mercy was simply being Mercy. She liked adventure, liked to keep things exciting, but she didn’t have an unkind bone in her body.
“Because it’s so much fun.”
Sybil turned from the window. “You’ve stuck close to the house all day.”
Mercy wrapped an arm about Sybil’s waist as they turned toward the kitchen. “I didn’t want to miss anything.”
“That’s strange. You usually create your own excitement.”
“Usually,” Mercy agreed. “But you’re much more interesting lately. Are you going to meet Brand later?”
She considered saying no just to prove her friend wrong, but then she’d feel obligated to follow through. “Maybe.” I hope so.
Mercy laughed. “Oh, how our Sybil has changed.”
Sybil jerked them to a halt. “What do you mean? I haven’t changed a bit.”
“You’re letting yourself be friendly with an outlaw cowboy. Not too long ago you would have run from such a man.”
“He’s not an outlaw and never was.”
Mercy just grinned and pulled her toward the kitchen. “An outlaw. A cowboy. Homeless. Likely as poor as a pauper. Sybil, so much for living a safe little life.”
Mercy meant to tease, but her words stung deep inside. Sybil didn’t care about his possessions or lack of them. A person’s value wasn’t measured in his material belongings.
By the time the evening meal was finished, dusk had fallen. Her glance went continually to the window. Would Brand come to the house? She was almost certain he wouldn’t. He’d be uncomfortable. Disappointment as sharp and stinging as acrid smoke burned her eyes.
Mercy nudged her. “Do you want me to go with you?”
Sybil stalled, wanting to go down the hill and see if Brand was around, but not wanting her friend to know how desperately she ached to see him and speak to him.
Mercy dragged her to the window overlooking the ranch. Lights glowed from the buildings. A lantern hung outside the barn, and in the shadows, a lean figure lounged against the wall.
“Guess who’s down there waiting for you?”
“You don’t know that.”
Mercy snagged shawls off the hooks in the hall and handed Sybil hers. “We haven’t see Jayne all day. Let’s go visit her.”
Without arguing, Sybil put on her shawl.
Linette and Eddie came into the room. Linette smiled at the pair. “Going out?”
“To visit Jayne.” Mercy winked and dragged Sybil to the door.
Trying to stop Mercy was as futile as trying to stop a train racing downhill. So Sybil let herself be hustled toward Jayne’s house. All the while her heart pushed against her ribs and her eyes sought out the figure leaning in the shadows.
When they reached the cookhouse, the figure stepped away from the barn and toward them. All along she’d known it was Brand.
Mercy murmured softly, “I’ll see Jayne on my own.” She slipped away.
Sybil barely noticed her departure as Brand moved closer. “Howdy,” he said, narrowing the distance between them.
“Good evening.” Was that all they had to say to each other?
He took her elbow and guided her down the moonlit path toward the river. “I decided to stay.”
“I’m glad you did.” They reached the bridge and stopped to lean on the handrail. They stared at the flashing silver of the water. “Are you enjoying your work?” she asked.
“Yes. And Cookie’s food is great.”
She saw his smile as she turned to look at him. Their elbows brushed. She could think of a hundred questions she wanted to ask him.... How had he survived his unsettled childhood? How bad did he hurt after losing his family? But she didn’t want to shatter the calm between them.
He shifted, leaned on one elbow and considered her. “I imagine you growing up in England in a big fancy house somewhat like Eddie’s. Fancy clothes. Fancy parties. Fine books. Am I right?”
“I was lonely.”
“What about Mercy and Jayne?”
“I didn’t meet them until I was considered old enough to participate in proper social events.” Sybil guessed her voice conveyed her regret over the things she’d missed as a child. “Not that I didn’t love my parents and enjoy their company.”
“No beaux?”
There’d been Colin, but what she’d felt for him paled to insignificance. “I once fancied myself in love.”
“What happened?”
“He left and never looked back.” She tried to disguise the hurt in her voice. Wondered if she’d succeeded.
Brand touched her cheek. “And hurt you. And I did the same thing. I’m sorry to have added to your pain.”
She couldn’t push a word past her tight throat.
“Did your parents give you everything you needed or wanted?”
Her breath eased out and she could answer. “They gave me what they felt was best for me.”
“You didn’t agree?”
She chuckled. “It never entered my mind to disagree until...” She squelched the unfaithful thought.
He touched her elbow. “Until what?”
“My father did much of his work from his office at home. He was a lawyer and saw many of his clients there. When Mother was ill and resting, he let me stay in his office. I had to be very quiet, so he gave me paper and pencils and I amused myself.”
“Let me guess. You made up stories.”
“Not at first. I drew little pictures. You know the sort...a round ball with a smaller one on top. Add triangles for ears, whiskers and eyes, and I’d made a cat.”
He chuckled, making her want to go on.
“I always showed them to Father. He admired them and said how clever I was. He said I must show them to Mother.”
Silence descended between Sybil and Brand. A bird fluttered and chirped as if settling her babies, though the babies would have flown the nest by now. Perhaps mother birds always made comforting good-night sounds. Laughter drifted from the bunkhouse and then the mournful sound of a harmonica.
“I soon learned to read and write, and added words to my pictures,” she continued. “More and more words, until finally the words grew into stories. They seemed to come from deep inside, pushing at my heart, my head and my fingers.” She felt the familiar rush she did when writing.
“I continued to show them to Mother and Father. They continued to say how clever I was. Until...” She drew in a large breath to steady her voice. “Until I said I wanted to one day write stories for everyone to read. I wanted to be an author. They sat side by side as I told them. I expected they’d say how clever I was, how pleased they would be to see others enjoy my stories.” She couldn’t go on, feeling again the bottom fall out of her stomach, leaving her airless and slightly nauseated.
Brand caught her shoulder and squeezed gently. The warmth of his touch slowly melted the ice about her heart.
“I was so disappointed when they didn’t approve, though I still don’t understand why. They should have been so proud.”
He pulled her closer, pressed her head to his shoulder. The steady beat of his heart vibrated through her. “And now you disappoint yourself.”
She sprang back. “You’re wrong.” Only he wasn’t.
“Really?” He leaned back. “Guess I’ll never understand, so let’s talk about something else. I told you about my last Christmas. Tell me about yours.”
She realized he meant the year his mother had died. He saw it as his last Christmas. Six years ago. Six years of loneliness, shutting himself away from others, fearing the appearance of his pa and brother. Treat
ing Christmas as if it didn’t matter any more than any other day. And for him it hadn’t, which was even sadder. Had no one ever reached out to him? Or had he turned his back on help? Either way, it was a lonely, barren life he lived. Sybil pushed back the sympathy so she could talk.
“I’ve been living with an elderly cousin and celebrated Christmas with her two years ago. It was very quiet.” She made a sound of amusement. “Everything about her house was very quiet. Last year I spent with Jayne at her house. It’s crazy there. So much coming and going I don’t know how they kept track of everyone.”
“And before your parents died?” Brand’s low voice evaded her defenses and took her back to Christmases past.
“We always had such a good time. My parents took me to Piccadilly Circus to look at all the toys in the shops. They bought me dolls and books. They each helped me choose gifts for the other parent. I was always so excited on Christmas morning, when we ate a special breakfast of waffles sprinkled with powdered sugar and covered with clotted cream. Father passed out the gifts and we sat around enjoying them while the cook roasted a goose.”
Brand turned to look at the water gurgling under the bridge. “You were a loved and adored child.”
Something in his voice made her feel she had pushed him away. She tried to think what she’d done to make him grow distant. It was on the tip of her tongue to ask when he spoke.
“It’s getting late.” He straightened and turned to indicate they should go back. He escorted her to Jayne’s house to meet Mercy. Then he hurried away with a barely murmured goodbye.
Sybil paused before the door to the cabin. Why had he retreated so quickly? Did he think she would look down on him because of the way he’d been forced to live?
As soon as she stepped inside the house, Mercy hurried to her side. “Tell us everything.”
Seth bolted to his feet. “I think the horses must need something.” He fled outside.
Jayne laughed. “Too many females around for him. Too much romance.” She clasped her hands together, looking starry-eyed, then took Sybil’s other hand. “Do tell us.”
She allowed them to lead her to a chair. “There’s nothing to report. I merely told him a few things about my childhood.”
Mercy groaned. “Now there’s a way to make a man feel insignificant.”
“What do you mean?” Sybil had no such intention.
“You adored your father. He could do no wrong. He gave you everything you ever dreamed of. How can a homeless cowboy hope to compete with that?”
Had she made Brand feel insignificant? Perhaps she inadvertently had. Now she must find a way to fix her mistake. To make him see that it was the love of her parents that blessed her, not their gifts.
It was love she wanted. Not things. Could she make him understand that?
Chapter Sixteen
Brand took his time about returning to the bunkhouse. He needed to think. And he couldn’t do it with the other cowboys asking questions or looking as if they’d die if they didn’t ask one. Though to be honest, none had done either. For the most part they weren’t any more interested in him than he was in them.
Sybil’s words tortured his brain.
Raised with privilege and prestige. Given everything. He’d always known that, so why did it now fill him with regret? Even with his name purged of the Duggan gang guilt, he was still a nobody cowboy with nothing to offer to a gal like Sybil Bannerman.
He eased open the bunkhouse door, but it squealed like a pig. Someone ought to oil the hinges. Half a dozen heads swung toward him, then returned to what they’d been doing. He was of no interest to any of them. Just a man doing a job.
He flung himself on his bunk and turned his back to the others. He had no wish to join them in a game of cards, or sing sad songs about lonely cowboys. His own sadness throbbed in his heart. Why sing of it when he lived it?
The truth could not be denied. Sybil was out of the realm of possibility. He should leave. Move on. But her challenge to forget being a Duggan rang in his ears. He was through running from the Duggan gang. Besides, he’d given his word to Eddie, and a man was only as good as his word.
The next day he still considered his options. Perhaps he could ask Eddie to send him to the far corner of the ranch. But Eddie had already dispatched riders to bring down the cows in preparation for the soon-to-be fall roundup.
Besides, somewhere deep inside Brand a happy thought warred with the lingering idea of riding away.
If he stayed around he could hope to see more of Sybil. It was a futile, foolish idea, but what harm could possibly come of it? Her interest in him was surely no more than curiosity or politeness.
He alone would bear the pain of their final goodbye, either when he forced himself to move on or when she returned to England. There would be a pain for every pleasure, but it would be worth it.
He glanced at the house up the hill as he left the cookhouse with Slim to fix the fences of the wintering pens. Did he see someone at the window? Was it Sybil? Just in case, he touched the brim of his hat in a pretense of adjusting its position.
A few hours later he and Slim put down their tools and headed to the cookhouse for dinner.
“You done good,” Slim said. “I appreciate a hard worker.”
“Just doin’ my job.”
Slim slapped him on the back. “You’ll do just fine here. Glad to have you on the crew.”
Crew? As if he belonged? Could it be possible?
Brand and Slim returned to the task after a satisfying meal, and worked throughout the afternoon.
Slim didn’t say much, which left Brand lots of time for thinking. Try as he did with every bit of energy he could muster to avoid one topic, his thoughts continually circled back to Sybil.
Would she again traipse down the hill after supper and spend a precious hour or two with him? He grinned in anticipation even as he told himself it was a foolish wish. Then, hoping Slim hadn’t noticed his silly grin, he forced it away.
Later, as soon as he’d scraped his plate clean after two helpings of Cookie’s mashed potatoes, gravy, roast beef and carrots, he left the cookhouse and parked himself by the barn door. Someone had lit the lantern hanging there and he stood at the edge of the circle of light. Sybil could see him if she cared to check. He told himself he wasn’t waiting, even though his gaze was glued to the house up the hill.
When the door opened and the light flashed golden, his breath caught partway down his throat.
Dawg rose and whined eagerly. “Settle down,” Brand murmured to the animal, and told himself the same.
A door slammed to his left and children’s voices called out.
Both he and Dawg shifted their gaze in that direction. The foreman’s three oldest children scampered down the trail toward them.
Dawg whined again.
“You like kids?” It surprised Brand, though they’d never been around children much, so maybe the dog had always been this way.
Dawg, taking Brand’s surprise for disapproval, flopped down and put his head on his paws.
“It’s okay. Kids are kind of...” He had no idea what word to use. Friendly. Innocent. Accepting. Maybe all that and more.
The children drew abreast. Neil, the oldest boy, saw Brand first. “Hi. We’re going to get Grady and play tag.”
At that moment, Sybil reached the corrals. Although his attention was on the youngsters, he’d been aware of her the whole time. Every step she took closer made his heart beat stronger, until it now thumped against his ribs like a trapped animal trying to escape.
She spoke to the children, who paused long enough to respond to her greeting, then she turned toward Brand, the width of the corral separating them. “Nice evening, isn’t it?”
He had paid scant attention, but now realized the full golden moon gave everythin
g a shimmering appearance. The warm kiss of a gentle evening breeze brushed against his cheek. He inhaled the scent of fresh hay and poplar leaves. “Very nice,” he murmured.
“It’s a perfect evening for a walk.” Her words carried warmth and welcome. “Care to join me?”
Brand jolted from the wall. He swallowed hard and forced himself to saunter, when every muscle wanted to gallop. “Sounds like a fine idea.” He fumbled with the gate, his fingers stiff, and finally managed to release the latch and slip through. “Where are we going?”
Her merry laugh sang through the air, danced through his veins and vibrated in his heart. “Do we need a destination? Can’t we simply enjoy the evening?”
He could have said they wouldn’t need to move from this spot and the evening would be special enough to stay in his thoughts the rest of his life. Instead, he managed one word. “Sure.” And fell in at her side. His arm brushed hers, sending a rush of tingles up his skin.
They walked west, toward the foreman’s house. Lamplight filled the windows. They saw Roper and Cassie in matching rocking chairs talking to each other. Cassie’s back was to them, but Roper faced them, a smile of pure contentment filling his expression.
“He looks happy.” The words were out before Brand could stop them.
“I expect he is. He’s gone from a lonely man raised in an orphanage and never knowing family, to a man loved and adored by a wife and a ready-made family.”
They passed the house.
Sybil sighed. “Kind of makes you envy him, doesn’t it?”
Brand had thought exactly that, but it seemed weak to say it. And why would she think such a thing? She’d been raised in a loving home. Of course, she was now an orphan. “Do you plan to return to England?”
She hesitated long enough for his lungs to ache for air.
He remembered he had to breathe.
“It’s the only home I have.”
You could stay here. The words hovered on the tip of his tongue, but he bit them back. He had nothing to offer her. No fine house. No abundance of books. Nothing. So he kept silent.
The children ran down the path behind them calling, “Not it.” Thor, the fawn, raced after them, darting from one to the other.
